Disclaimer: And it still doesn't belong to me.

A/N: I have no idea whether or not the UK had graduation ceremonies like we do in the US, so for now, please believe that they do. I think I'm going to stick with what I said in an earlier AN; think of this as the world between the real world and cannon for now, at least until such time as I re-obtain the internet at home and have the chance to go through and correct all the Americanisms.

Herein we will see some grieving, some healing, and some dissention being sowed in the DE ranks.

Chapter Thirty-One: Mending

15 May, 1998
Harry,

I can't really tell you what to feel, so you'll have to figure out if you want that feeling to go away on your own. But, I can tell you that it does come less and less often the more time there is between what happened and now. Whoever said that time heals was full of it. It never really heals, but eventually you'll see that you can and will continue living.

I don't know if Hermione ever said, but I want to be a mediwizard when I get done with school. I want – no, that's not right. I need to fix what happened to Ginny. I still feel as though what happened to her was partially my fault. If I'd spent more time with her and less time with my own friends, I might have been able to spot that she hadn't been herself. Merlin, I may have been able to keep her from writing in that damn diary altogether.

Now, like I said before, I know that what happened to you isn't at all the same, but it's similar. At least you know there isn't any reason to hope that Allen will come back. That, in and of itself, is something of a comfort. Cold comfort, to be true, but still…

My previous offer still stands. If you ever need someone to yell at, you know where to find me.

Hopefully see you soon,
Ron

Harry sighed and stared blankly at the ceiling of his room. The painted blue sky didn't do much to cheer him. In fact, not much seemed at all funny or enjoyable anymore. The only thing that seemed to capture his full attention was whenever he was working on detailing some idea or other for BKE, or in dealing with any of the real-life aspects of the business. Harry found himself guiltily longing for those moments, just for the chance to forget, even if only for a short while, that Allen was no longer available.

He made a split-second decision to go to Hogwarts – it was Saturday, and he should be able to find Ron and Hermione without too much difficulty. Though he'd told his godfather and Remus that he'd wanted to be alone for a while, he suddenly found that solitude was the last thing he really wanted.

He grabbed his wand and a jacket on his way down to the parlor; the floo had finally been connected the day before. He paused in the kitchen long enough to leave a message on the marker-board and heard Chad and Jenn's voices coming from the den.

"…and I know, Jenny, that you don't want…"

Harry ignored them, marginally happy – no, relieved – that Jenn was talking to someone. He recalled that Chad had lost his own wife a couple of years prior, and so was likely to be one of the best people available to convince Jenn to get on with living. Harry grabbed some floo powder and threw it into the hearth, calling out, "Hogwarts."

The flames spit him out in the headmaster's office. "Mr. Potter," Dumbledore greeted him, "this is a surprise." The headmaster was careful to keep his tone neutral.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted anything," Harry replied, absently brushing soot off of his clothes. "Do you know where Ron is?"

Albus shook his head, "Alas, I fear not. Likely, though, he is either in the library, studying, or down by the lake with Miss Granger." Dumbledore motioned to the empty chairs facing his desk. "Won't you sit for a moment?"

Even though Harry didn't want to have to deal with the meddlesome old man any longer than he absolutely had to, he took one of the chairs. "Did you need something?" Above all else he'd been feeling recently, he was weary down to his very marrow. He didn't have the energy to be combatant with the headmaster just then, and if the old man said something he didn't want to listen to, he could and would leave.

"I merely wished to talk, Mr. Potter. Would you care for some tea or a snack?" Harry shook his head, but Albus conjured a tea service anyway. He sipped from a cream-colored cup before meeting Harry's gaze. "I realize, Mr. Potter, that I have erred most grievously in regards to you by placing you with your aunt and her family after your own parents had died." Harry opened his mouth to reply, but the headmaster cut him off with a gesture. "Even with my long life, and my experience in fighting the darker side of humanity, and all my magical power, I – though most fail to remember this – am merely human. I can and do make mistakes. I also like to believe that the underlying spirit of humanity is essentially good. Honorable. Therefore, when your parents died, I had assumed that Petunia would be the right person to raise you. You once asked why you were not left with Sirius… Well, aside from the fact that though he's one of my favorite students, he'd never been one to take responsibility all that seriously – if you'll pardon the expression. Also, at the time, everyone assumed that he had been your parents' secret-keeper. Since your parents had obviously been betrayed, we all assumed that it had been he who had done so – your parents had told no one about the change in plans regarding their secret-keeper.

"You also once asked me why I didn't listen to Remus when he had returned and told me of your relatives' stance on magic. To be quite frank, Mr. Potter, I honestly didn't believe that anyone would or could be so callous as to hate a child for something that they couldn't help being. I trusted, too strongly, I fear, in that belief I have that everyone is really good at heart."

Rather than getting angry at the man, Harry was suddenly able to see his point of view. He still didn't like it, but he understood a little better exactly why he'd been subjected to the Dursleys. "Why didn't you ever check up on what was really going on there?" Harry's voice was soft and quiet as he asked the one question he hadn't thought to ask before now.

Dumbledore sighed, "Mainly because of the same reason, Mr. Potter. I trusted that Petunia would be able to set aside her hatred of all things magical when faced with the prospect of raising her infant nephew. I also had Arabella Figg move to your neighborhood to help keep an eye on things. Looking back on it now, though, I can acknowledge that this wasn't the best way to handle the situation. I can only ask that you forgive an old man's failings so that we may go forth without the burden of the past clouding things."

In the ensuing silence, Harry thought through everything the headmaster had revealed. Put the past to rest, Harry, Allen's voice echoed in Harry's mind. Put the past to rest, and see how things can build from here. The corners of Harry's mouth pulled back in the tiniest of smiles. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before standing. "Thank you for clarifying this, sir." His voice lacked its customary undertone of sarcasm when speaking with Dumbledore. He offered his hand, "Fresh start?"

Albus smiled brightly, "Fresh start," he agreed.

Harry helped himself to the other cup of tea on the serving tray and sat back down. "I presume that you're aware of what I've had done to Voldemort?"

Albus chuckled, "Of course, Harry. Might I say that it is likely the most brilliant idea I think I have ever heard before? I do wonder, though, why you simply didn't decide to use something along the lines of a slow-acting poison – nobody would have blamed you for wanting to do so."

Harry shrugged, "I honestly never really thought about it. I had merely wanted a way to keep him busy and not coming after me again. I hadn't really realized precisely what was going to happen, but I'd imagined that he would have spent some time in trying to break the spell. I hadn't counted on the fact that, from what Professor Snape has told me, his followers don't realize it's a potion that's causing his hallucinations. Furthermore, I hadn't really expected the twins and Professor Snape to have been quite so… thorough in their endeavor, nor on Sirius, Remus, and Chad being quite so… vindictive in their additions to the hallucinations."

Dumbledore nodded, "I can see how they would be, though. Severus has always been rather competitive with his potions skills, and as such would have been wanting to prove to the Weasley twins that his superior experience in the field was more important than their unique ingenuity. On the twins' side, they would have wanted to make sure that their former professor saw that they were just as skilled as he in the experimental arena. I believe they concoct their own potions for pranks, yes?" Harry nodded. "So, even though they don't have the years of experience brewing stock potions or creating highly-specialized healing draughts that Severus boasts, they are more familiar with finding the proper combinations of ingredients that will yield the result they are after with no unforeseen side effects."

Harry nodded again and sipped from his cup, "That's why I wanted the three of them working together."

"And insofar as Sirius, Remus, and Mr. Thomas are concerned, part of their viciousness in their contributions was likely a direct result of your recent 'visitation' with Voldemort."

Harry ceded the point, "Hadn't thought of it like that. If that is the case, then I'm glad that Jenn wasn't involved."

The two of them talked more about the situation with the Dark Lord for a couple hours, both equally careful to avoid mentioning the Dursleys.

Meanwhile, Lucius Malfoy was speaking with Barty Crouch in a well-warded corner of the Malfoy Library. A muggle psychology book lay on a table between them. "I would rather we exhaust the possibility of magical reasons before we start looking to other… avenues, Lucius."

Lucius sighed and nodded, "If Potter had been a well-trained auror, or even one of the spell-creators the Ministry likes to pretend doesn't exist, I would be inclined to agree with you, Barty. But, he's not. If rumor is to be believed, the boy didn't even know he was a wizard until last summer. There's just no possible way he's the one to blame for our Lord's… problem."

Barty shook his head, "Not necessarily true, Lucius. If the kid had outside help, it's all too possible that he could, indeed, be responsible."

Lucius got up and began pacing. "No, Barty. I used a bloody pensieve to examine the duel in more detail. None of Potter's curses actually hit our Lord, save for a single trip jinx – Merlin, of all the spells being cast that night, the only ones I couldn't identify all of came from our Lord. Nothing Potter did that night could be the cause of this."

"What of that golden dome that appeared?"

"I looked into that, as well. It would appear as though both Potter and our Lord have brother wands. That dome was what happens when brother wands end up linking during a duel. It's a priori incantatum effect in the extreme."

Barty deflated a little in his chair. He had been sure that had been the source of the problem. "If it wasn't Potter, then could something have gone wrong with the resurrection spell?" He didn't think that was the cause, as he had directed that ritual himself, but it was a possibility.

Lucius stopped in his pacing. "Could be. Why don't we look into it, eh?"

Exiting the headmaster's office, Harry made his way through the school to the Great Hall. Dumbledore had mentioned that he was welcome to stay for dinner, and Harry likewise realized that he'd be able to find Ron at dinner without risking getting lost in the castle. Scanning the crowd of students from the doorway, Harry spotted Ron sitting between Hermione and a boy with sandy-blonde hair. Ignoring the looks that his jeans and jacket were garnering from some of the students, Harry wove through the crowd. He stopped just behind Ron and Hermione. "Hey, guys."

The both of them jumped a little and whirled around. Hermione smiled brightly and got up, "Hey, Harry." She motioned for the second-year who had been sitting next to her to move down a little.

"Harry," Ron greeted his friend. "What're you doing here?"

Harry sat in the empty spot between Ron and Hermione. "Got your letter, actually," Harry replied. "Thought I'd come and take you up on your offer. Got a bit sidetracked by the headmaster, otherwise I'd have found you earlier."

By unspoken agreement, Ron, Harry, and Hermione avoided talking about sensitive subjects until all three were nearly ready to leave dinner. They made small-talk while they ate, and failed to notice an ever-growing ring of silence surrounding them. It had begun with the second-year that Hermione had displaced recognizing the scar on Harry's forehead leaning across the table to ask a fifth-year if he was seeing things. From there, in groups of threes and fours, the student population of Hogwarts fell silent and began staring in Harry's direction.

"…and so Gryffindor got knocked out of running for the Quidditch… Cup… by… Hufflepuff…" Ron trailed off when he realized that his voice sounded a lot louder than it should have. He blinked and looked around, which brought the current state of affairs to both Harry and Hermione's attention.

Harry hastily finished off his cup of tea – he hadn't been about to try pumpkin juice. "Um… You two about done?" he whispered.

Ron nodded, quickly forking the last of his chocolate cake into his mouth. Hermione cast a longing look at her éclair, they were her favorite sweet and she'd missed lunch while studying. "Don't worry, 'Mione," Ron whispered around Harry. "Catch up when you're done."

"Where?" she asked, just as quietly.

The collective student body leaned forward as one, holding their breaths. Ron smiled a little. "You know where," he replied.

Hermione smirked and nodded. Ron got to his feet and led Harry out of the Great Hall. Just as the door closed behind them with a hollow bang, Ron turned to Harry. "Run!"

Harry had just enough time to ask, "Why?" before he could hear the distinctive sound of dozens, if not hundreds of pairs of feet heading towards the Great Hall doors. Realization dawning, he sprinted after Ron.

They ran through what seemed to Harry to be the majority of the school before Ron pulled him into the library. Harry had a moment to be grateful that he'd taken up jogging in the mornings, had he not, he would be distinctly out of breath just then. "Good evening, Madam Pince," Ron greeted the sour-faced witch sitting at a desk just inside the door.

"Good evening, Ronald. Who is your friend? I don't recall seeing him before." The librarian's voice was at odds with her unfriendly appearance, warm and welcoming.

"Harry Potter, ma'am," Ron replied. "Harry, this is Madam Pince, the Hogwarts librarian."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter." Pince nodded in greeting.

Harry returned the nod, "Likewise."

"Could we use the study-room, ma'am?" Ron asked.

Madam Pince smiled, "Certainly, dears. Will you be expecting anyone else this evening?"

"Probably Hermione."

Pince nodded again, "Then it's all yours. Make sure you close it up again when you leave."

"Of course, ma'am." Ron led Harry to the furthest corner from the library door, and just as they got out of sight of said door, it opened and an excited voice asked if the librarian had seen Harry Potter come through. Ron smirked when Madam Pince replied that no one had been into the library at all since dinner had begun.

Ron pulled a thick, blue book off of a wall shelf, reached into the empty space it left, and pressed the stone behind the book's resting place. There was a slight grating noise followed by a metallic clicking before the entire shelf swung inwards a little. Ron pushed the hidden door open still further and motioned for Harry to follow. "Lumos," Ron said, closing the door behind them.

Candles burst into life, illuminating a small, comfortable room that was roughly the same size as Harry's bedroom. There was a thickly cushioned sofa, bracketed by a pair of overstuffed wingback armchairs, facing a fireplace. There was a stack of semicircular boards leaning at an angle in one corner. It took Harry a moment to recognize their function; they were lap-desks.

"Where are we?" he asked, watching Ron set the fireplace roaring with an incendio.

"This is the study-room for the Head Boy or Head Girl and their guests. Normally, I wouldn't be allowed to use this without Hermione here – she's Head Girl this year – but Pince likes me. Of course, she knows who you are, too, and that we wouldn't be able to find a better place to talk without running the risk of the rest of the school finding out. I didn't think you'd want to be hounded for autographs," Ron flopped lazily on the sofa.

Harry took a seat in one of the wingback chairs. "Why a hidden room, though?"

Ron stretched a little, "Well, the Head Boy and Head Girl are responsible for organizing the prefect patrols, they're also supposed to be available to help any student that asks for it, along with a bunch of other responsibilities, but since the Heads are always seventh-years, they also need to be able to study for their NEWTs in peace. They can't be interrupted if the other students can't find them, now can they?"

Harry nodded, "Makes a surprising amount of sense."

"Now that we're no longer around the hoard, how are you really?"

Harry shrugged, "I can't rightly say… I mean, I'm sad, but there are moments where I find myself feeling guilty, too, and damned if I can explain why. And… There are times when I find myself getting so bloody angry that I just want to throttle something!"

Ron nodded, "I know. Hell, I still feel that way about Ginny."

"All I really know is that I loved Allen like a father, and that not having him here hurts. I keep wanting to ask him things, only to suddenly realize halfway to wherever he'd normally be, that he isn't here to ask. I wanted to be able to have him at my commencement, to see both him and Jenn sitting in the audience. I wanted to finish working on my truck with him, to be able to ask his advice about girls – heaven knows, I can't ask Sirius about stuff like that, he'd be as likely to tell me the wrong stuff just as a prank as to tell me truly. I wanted to be able to discuss my future with him. And now… I can't." A heavy feeling settled in Harry's chest, making it hard for him to breathe. "He won't be there to watch me finish school, he won't know what scores I get on my NEWTs, he won't be able to meet any girlfriends I might bring home. He's not going to be able to sidetrack Jenn when I want to sneak out for the night. He's not going to be there…" Harry's voice cracked on the last word, and tears that had only ever made an appearance in the dark solitude of his bedroom surfaced.

Not knowing when or how it had happened, Harry found himself sitting next to Ron on the sofa when Hermione joined them an indeterminable amount of time later. In fact, he was leaning on Ron's shoulder, while Hermione rubbed small circles on his back. The tears he'd shed left a wet spot on Ron's robes. "Feeling better?" Hermione quietly asked.

Removing his blurred glasses, he took a moment to think before answering. After the lenses were polished clean on the hem of his t-shirt, he scrubbed his face off with his hands. Replacing the glasses on his face he answered, "Oddly enough… Yeah, I am." He grimaced at the mess he'd made of Ron's robes. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to turn into such a wet blanket…"

Ron shook his head, smiling. "Don't worry about it, mate. What're friends for?"

"I'm Henry the Eighth I am, Henry the Eighth I am, I am! I got married to the widow next door – she's been married seven times before…"

Voldemort wasn't sure what had happened to the plush things that had been following him for the last couple of days, but he was grateful that they were gone. In their place was what seemed to be a quartet of lumberjacks – only they were wearing lingerie under their flannel shirts (which were unbuttoned to display this fact.) The one in the red-and-black checkered shirt (with a neon pink bra) was currently singing while the other three clapped in time to the music. The one in the yellow-and-red checked shirt (with a red bra) had just finished up with a horribly long-winded song that the lumberjack who was wearing a fishnet body-stocking under his blue-and-green checked shirt had announced was entitled 'Found a Peanut.'

Voldemort had been a full two weeks without any sort of sleep. His waxy white skin was now sporting a bluish pallor, and he couldn't help but hear some of his more foolishly brave Death Eaters comment that he was starting to look more like Death and less like a Dark Lord. In all honesty, Voldemort just couldn't dredge up enough enthusiasm to care what they were saying, let alone curse them for it. He blearily stumbled through Malfoy Manor until he located Lucius just outside the man's private study.

Lucius bowed low, "My Lord."

To Lucius' surprise, the Dark Lord ignored him in favor of shambling further along the corridor. Lucius heard him humming under his breath. The song was a familiar tune, one that Lucius had once killed a house-elf for singing – repeatedly – in his presence many years earlier. And I believe now would be the time to start worrying, he thought.

On Wednesday, May twentieth, Severus had to restrain the urge to laugh maniacally as he strode through the empty corridors of Hogwarts. It was getting close to midnight, and only the most foolish of students would even be thinking of being out of bed so close to the end-of-year exams. As it was, had any students been present, they likely would have voluntarily submitted themselves to the tender mercies of Madam Pomfrey for Severus-I-can-wilt-a-bloody-tree-with-my-glare-Snape was grinning. It wasn't an ordinary grin, either, but one of those manic grins which causes an observer to question the sanity of the person sporting such an expression. Closer observation would reveal that there was something of a satisfied feline expression lurking about his eyes, as well as an unidentifiable air in his posture that belied pride, amusement, and no little amount of self-satisfied shock.

"Evening, Hubert," the professor actually patted the stone gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office on the head as he not-quite-skipped past. Once through the doors to the office proper, Severus' expression faltered momentarily when he saw that the headmaster wasn't currently in. "Albus! Get out here and bring some of that road-mud you claim is tea! Even some of your silly little candies. I've news! Good news!"

There was a flushing noise, muffled by a door, and in short order, Dumbledore appeared, wearing his purple-and-green bathrobe with a matching cap that had a long tassel hanging down to the right side of his face. He stopped short and blinked for a moment at his potions professor. "Severus?" Albus' tone was wary. "Are you quite all right, my boy?"

Severus merely nodded briefly, his expression not changing, before he started talking a mile a minute, nearly bouncing around the room in unchained glee. "It's working, Albus! It's actually bloody working! That kid's a bloody genius! I admit, I'd thought it was merely a stopgap, a breather for the kid to get his bearings and not have to worry about the Dark Lord for a bit, especially since it was just a 'prank!' But I feel I have to take back everything I ever said about pranks! Look, Albus! Look!" He rolled back his left sleeve and thrust it under the headmaster's nose. "It's still there, sure, but it's fading! It's not been this faint since that Halloween! Malfoy says the Dark Lord hasn't slept at all in weeks! He's losing his hold on his magic more and more every day! Even better, no one suspects anything! Lucius is absolutely convinced the Dark Lord is suffering from muggle schizophrenia, Crouch is so adamant about it not being the fault of his little ritual that nearly everyone else is sure he's covering for something, and Bellatrix keeps muttering something about 'nargles,' whatever those are. It's only a matter of time now!"

When Severus paused for breath, Albus took his chance to interject, "It does look promising, Severus, but are you certain you're all right? You didn't get hit with a cheering charm? Drink something from your cabinets that might have been mislabeled? Hit your head?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "Of course not, Albus. Who do you take me for? A first-year? It's just that bloody preposterous idea is working!" Severus started in again. Albus sighed and realized that unless he could slip Severus a calming draught, it was going to be a very long night.

Somewhat buoyed by the news from Dumbledore – sent to him via owl – that his idea was proving to be more useful than he'd originally thought, Harry found himself standing before his easel, a blank canvas before him. He hadn't painted anything since the day before Allen had died, he'd been too lost in mourning, and not just a little scared of what his paints might show. However, what with the good news from Dumbledore – and Harry was marginally grateful that the old man was starting to actually correspond with him and not passing messages through a third party – the unwavering support of his friends, and the fact that his brain had finally processed what Nigel had been talking about that day he'd stopped by, Harry felt a little more at ease with whatever his brushes might do to the canvas.

For the first time in weeks, he relaxed a little and let his hands spread whatever color they wished. Most of his mind was wondering just how he was going to complete both his final sculpture and final painting in time for the end of the year, which was only two and a half weeks away. Not to mention he had his final research project to complete for his physics class, a history project, a lengthy translation for his Latin course, and he'd been informed the previous day that the final project for his Living Skills class was to plan a ruddy wedding. He had no idea how in the world he was going to get it all done before school ended.

And that was ignoring the fact that the week following the end of his muggle schooling Remus wanted him to sit the NEWTs at Hogwarts. Harry honestly didn't know if he was ready for that, for all that the professors who had been helping him said that he was. He spared a moment to be grateful that Amelia had dumped him – he had quite enough on his plate, thank you very much, he didn't need the added headache of a girlfriend, too.

Pausing in his thoughts for a moment, he noticed what it was he was painting. A tiny, melancholy smile graced his face. Though it wasn't complete by any means, he could recognize the general shapes on the canvas. He opened a tube of brown and mixed a dab of yellow into it on his pallet. Yeah, I know, Allen. You'd be laughing at me, and cracking jokes about how I can't sit still, and how if I had anything less to do, I'd be going nutters from boredom. His brush began filling in the hairline. And you'd be right. I don't like not being busy. I feel useful when I'm busy. Harry's little smile grew somewhat. You were the same way, you know. Jenn is, too.

Though Harry still had bouts of depression and anger about Allen not being there for him anymore, over the course of the next few weeks, those times started coming farther apart, as his good memories of Allen took their places. Nigel's advice, that he be happy for whatever small portion of Allen that was still with him, was an idea Harry clung to fiercely.

He completed his sculpture for his 3-D art class during the weekend, using a large block of styrofoam and copious amounts of plaster to create a stylized representation of what could be either a lumos or a star at night. He'd spray-painted it a metallic bronze. His research paper for history took a little longer, requiring him to put in several hours at the library, but he managed to finish it, too, well before the due date. Since he'd opted to do his final project for physics on the principles of converting heat to electricity, the majority of it was a paper; the remainder – a practical demonstration thereof – took most of an afternoon to assemble, and when he'd finished setting up a miniature turbine generator over a Bunsen-burner, the light generated by the tiny bulb attached to the generator was outstripped by the light from the fire of the burner, and had led to Mr. Eindelberg commenting something to the effect of being grateful that the burner was on high enough to make sure the light was glowing.

Harry managed to come up with a shortcut for his Living Skills project that he hoped wouldn't cause him too much difficulty. He'd seen the girls in his class going completely bonkers over the project – and if one of them asked him his opinion on this color or that style of tuxedo, he was going to hex them, Statute of Secrecy be damned! He wasn't about to dive into that much detail on the subject, and he further knew that even if his 'shortcut' failed abysmally, his grades in the class were sufficiently high enough that he'd still end up with a passing grade. Instead of planning his own wedding – which the other two boys who shared his class were doing, albeit grudgingly and with far less care to the innumerable little details that the girls of the class were so gaga over – he invented an imaginary couple and had them elope. The entire project had taken him all of three hours of first researching legalities and prices online, and then organizing all the information into a plastic folder.

And so, with the last week of school looming before him, the only major project he had remaining was for his advanced two-dimensional art class. He had told Mr. Thatcher – the instructor for the class – that his theme would be 'family' back in April. He had no idea how to demonstrate that in paint, though. Part of his problem stemmed from the fact that Dudley's trial had begun the previous Thursday. Though normally, he would have been required to be present for the proceedings, Andie had managed to plead extenuating circumstances – what with the end of his schooling approaching so rapidly – and as such, he'd only had to be there for the first day. During the four hours he was in the court room, he had been surprised at the sheer number of charges being filed against his cousin. Apparently, once word had gotten out that Harry was pressing charges, a slew of others who had been bullied or beaten by Dudley had come forth.

Harry had the feeling that his cousin wasn't going to be out of prison for a very long time.

Shaking his head to bring his attention back to the problem at hand, Harry tapped his layout pencil agitatedly on a blank piece of sketch-paper while his mind dismissed one idea after another after another. When the bells rang to signal the end of class he was no closer to figuring out what to paint that he'd been when he sat down. He took the massive canvas that had been in Mr. Thatcher's storage closet home with him the weekend before his final week of school. Hopefully, inspiration would dawn.

Chad answered his cellular phone and winced once more at the thought of the bill that would be waiting for him when he finally returned home. "Chad Thomas speaking."

"Thomas, I know you're on vacation," Chad suppressed a groan. It was his boss – the chief of police. "But, we've got a situation."

Chad pulled a notebook that still had a couple of blank pages in it out of his briefcase and fished a pen out of his pocket. "How bad?" he asked, knowing that his boss would understand the unasked 'will I have to cut my time here short?'

"Very. We've got some nut out kidnapping and killing little kids. There've been four victims so far, ages from seven to nine, and all of them were found in Central Park, dressed up like they were ready for Easter Sunday with their folks. We've got no leads, nothing so much as a fiber or hair; the bastard's being careful."

"Hell," Chad breathed. "I hate cases like this. Is he just killing them or is it worse than that?"

"Worse."

Chad let out a blistering oath that was sufficiently heated enough to peel paint. "Aside from where the bodies have been found, is there any real pattern to the victims?"

"Nothing concrete. All four are Caucasian, but there've been two boys and two girls. All four went to different schools, all four are from vastly different classes – the latest, one of the girls, was the daughter of a corporate exec, and the first was the only child of a woman who's been arrested twice for possession. The other two were the son of a pediatrician and the daughter of a television repairman. None of them are even from the same borough. We've got Manhattan, Staten Island, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. Two went to private school, the other two went to public."

"Damnit all to hell. Give me a day or two and keep me updated. In fact, email me the particulars of the file. I'll see about getting some work done en route. I'll let you know when I'm back."

The chief breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. You should be getting that file sometime in the next couple of hours." The call ended with the chief's customary lack of anything resembling a 'goodbye.'

Chad snapped his phone shut and set about clearing off Moody's table and sorting out what was and what wasn't his.

"Bad news?" Moody asked from the doorway.

Chad nodded, "I'm needed for a case back home. Some sicko's taken to raping and killing little kids."

Moody's expression darkened. "Merlin. And we think we've got problems…" Chad knew without asking that Moody meant wizards in general. "Best of luck to you, sonny. We've done about all we can on the Dark Lord issue anyway. All that needs now is time, if Snape is to be believed."

"I know. And if it weren't for that fact, I would be feeling very torn right now." Chad finished sorting out which of the notes scattered across the kitchen had nothing to do with Voldemort and tucked them into his briefcase. The rest of them he stacked back in their haphazard piles.

"Drop back by before you leave." Moody ordered.

Chad nodded, "Planned to. Right now, though, I need to head for Jenn's place and hijack her computer long enough to get a plane out of Heathrow for the day after tomorrow. See you later."

Moody nodded and stepped out of the rushed profiler's way.

A/N2: It's another relatively short chapter, but compared to the last one, this one was infinitely easier to write. I know Snape's acting a little OOC in that one scene, but I point that out with Albus' comments. He's just shocked that the idea is working better than he thought it would, and for the first time since he took the Dark Mark, he's suddenly finding the idea of a world without Voldemort a distinct possibility. And yes, to Mercedes Lackey fans out there, I 'borrowed' from her short-story 'Last of the Season' for the case that calls Chad back to New York. (I should probably state that I'm not her, either, and as such don't own the story.) And yes, the lumberjacks were inspired by Monty Python – blame Sirius, those were all his idea! (And no, I don't own Monty Python, either.)

Also, I feel obliged to point out that I've had this written for the better part of two weeks now, but have had a hell of a time getting online to post!

Reviews are the antivenom that keeps my plot-snake from killing me. (Yeah, I know that most plots are bunnies, and that is how this one started, but it's really getting too big to be considered a bunny anymore, wouldn't you agree?)